The Boy That Used to Be
by A Girl Named Disaster
Summary: A vignette about how Tom Riddle became Voldemort... a glance into his mind I guess. His torments, furies and obsessions. Tom/Bellatrix but there's the Harry kink running through it too, obviously.


**_Disclaimer:_**_ Tom, Bellatrix and Harry are in no way mine, I just like to remind them of their torment every once in a while and play with them a bit. They belong to J.K. Rowling, and so does the series. And the movies belong to Warner Bros. … Have I missed anything?_

**_Rating:_**_ I'd say this is R. Very R._

**_Warnings:_**_ Uh… everything. Violence, language (just so you know, I really don't like the c-word and never use it, but this is a severely fucked up glance into Voldemort's head and I don't think he'd shrink at using the term), sadism, obsession, sex, self injury. *takes a deep breath* Don't say I didn't warn you 'cause I just told you all of the questionable shit that's in it, and if you go on to read it and are disturbed it's your own damn fault._

~~***~~***~~

Tom Marvolo Riddle. The boy that used to be.

He drew castles in the air, lying on his rusty metal cot at the orphanage in Liverpool. Castles with turrets and spires, buttresses and gargoyles, all in his head, impending and terrible. He frightened the other boys, he was too strange. No one touched him except to drop a cigarette down his shirt, the embers searing his skin, or to shove his face into the dirty sink until he had no choice but to take breaths of water, choking and spluttering, until they yanked his head up again. The hate that slowly set alight in this boy was pungent and new. He immersed himself in it, beating the walls of the place with his tiny fists until they bled and dirt stung in the wounds. It made him smile in a twisted way when he looked at what he'd done to them, laughing inside but making no sound.

He lived in a castle as a teenager, his dream fulfilled too late. The hatred had stained his marrow long before, dirty and putrid. He didn't revel in it any longer, but sought to get it out, to lance the infection in his mind until the poison flowed out. Here they didn't see what he was, they trusted him. They hadn't seen his father dying, after all. Tom learned dark magic and bloodwork, read from The Book of the Dead and talked to snakes. Snakes thought he was special, their long, coiled bodies undulating and flexing, so powerful, so pretty. They hissed tales of disaster to him at night when he lay quietly in his bed… Soft and luxurious now, no tired, metal springs breaking free to poke him through the mattress.

He fucks her because she's his most fervent disciple, not because she's beautiful. She is, to many, but he can't see beauty through his glaring red eyes, the pupils slit like a cat's. All he sees is the boy who killed him, the one who wrecked the game he was so very close to winning. He pays no attention when he hurts her because she isn't there. He's pounding into the small, shaking frame of a boy, hearing him cry out in pain. It's his shoulder he's sinking his teeth into, not hers, breaking the skin and seeing a little of his life trickle out, saccharine and crimson. 

He knows this boy drew castles too. He was kicked around and knocked to the ground by stupid cunts like the ones at his orphanage, so many years ago. But his castles were different, ivory and gold. They held angels instead of twisted monsters, and phoenix song trilled through the air, perfumed and sweet. Tom will tear this castle to the ground one day, pillage and plunder it until the boy sees that nothing can last except hate. He'll burn a trail to forever across his skin, pale and broken, so much like he used to be. It makes no sense that this miracle child, this Boy Who Lived, has evaded him all this time, that he didn't listen when the snakes told him their stories in a low hiss.

But it's alright… he'll make him listen.

He'll tell him the stories, again and again until he screams out in agony, bitter tears streaming down his young face until he goes limp. Blissful and unaware, with no dreams to trash and no desires to avoid. The hate will go out of Tom Marvolo Riddle's eyes, they will no longer be stained red. And he'll catch a glimpse of his follower, where she's been waiting for him so many years while he beat and ravaged her, imagining the demise of his enemy. They will be wrong and unwanted and glorious together, cluttered pieces of a smashed mind. They'll destroy the world. Tom will watch the golden boy's blood spilling on the ground, washing away his sins, and he'll see Bellatrix.


End file.
